Tidbits, Truths and Taller Tales

By Sandra Novelly

Tidbits, Truths and Taller Tales, a compilation of 'Tidbits', ultra short and short flash fiction; 'Truths', some true stories taken from the author's life experiences; and 'Taller Tales', longer fictional stories; and contains material for older teens and adults that is sometimes sad, sometimes risque, often thought provoking, and some just plain funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Novelly
• Release date: Jun 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476152035

Sandra Novelly

Sandra Novelly, originally from Northern Kentucky, is the mother of three, grandmother of three and now lives in Laughlin, NV with her husband, Larry and two cats, Smokey and JR. Sandra has loved to read since she began doing so at age four by standing over her mother while her mother read the newspaper. Sandra devours every book that grabs her interest and also loves to write. She has written some award winning stories on Writing.com and also belongs to Absolute Write.

Book preview

Ultra Short Flash Fiction

Bait

Alicia was tired of hearing her roommate’s complaints.

You never go anywhere for fun, ‘Lica. You have to get out and meet people. It’ll do you good to get out and away from all the death and destruction.

This new club opening was just the thing. Alicia could almost bet this would be the kind of place she would find her quarry. Might as well mix pleasure with business… She dabbed on a bit more shiny lipstick and checked her mirrored image critically. That should do it, she thought as she tucked the tiny gun into her bag…

Lica, I’m home.

No answer.

Cass walked into Alicia’s room and caught sight of the note propped up by the mirror on Alicia’s messy dressing table. The scattering of items there—a box of dusting powder, its lid askew, the small pots of eye shadow and lipstick, a couple of Kleenex bearing blotted kisses—made her smile. Finally Alicia was getting out for some fun; she worked much too hard at her stressful job as a police detective.

Cass tore open the note.

Gone fishing was all it said.

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Contact

At their lockers, blue eyes meet brown. Blue narrow, brown widen. Brown devour, blue appraise. Blue blink, while brown smile. Blue lower, coy. Brown eyes zero in.

Hi, I'm Darren. You're new here, aren't you? What a babe!

A slight shiver passes, then an answer.

Yes. I'm Samantha. So cute!

What class d'ya have next?

Science.

Hey, me too. Walk you?

Sure.

Let me carry those.

Okay.

Fingertips touch. Sparks fly. Exclamations intertwine.

Tension relieved.

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Earache

Music? Nope.

Hell. Absolutely.

My eardrums throb; similar to the pain caused by a sharp stick shoved through one ear and out the other.

The high-pitched caterwaul has finally ended. Folks call that noise singing!

Why must he insist we watch Lawrence Welk?

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Early Morning Warning

The light on the answering machine blinks. Arthur pushes the button.

A harsh voice whispers, This is your last warning. I’m coming to get you, you son of a bitch…

Arthur chuckles at the caller’s attempt to disguise his voice; then drains the last dregs of welcome caffeine. No sooner has he set the empty mug in the sink than he hears the door open. Heavy steps approach him from behind and a hand grasps his shoulder.

Ready lazybones? Remember, the early bird gets the worm; the early worm gets the fish, his brother says.

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Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum

I walk through the airport in Mexico City; customs should be a breeze. After all, I had survived the inspection of my bags and person performed by the ‘I ate a lemon’ sourpuss in Los Angeles. It couldn’t be worse, right?

Wrong!

My heart stops when I near the baggage carrousel and see it grind to a halt. The custom official’s dog starts sniffing at my luggage. Both pieces are removed and isolated to one side. The dog continues to work the bags over with his sensitive nose. I am afraid I know why.

Just as I reach my luggage, amid the suspicious stares of the travelers filling the area, it happens. The dog gives one more sniff, hikes his leg and proceeds to baptize both my bags with a voluminous stream of urine.

Damn, I shout. That’s the last time I borrow luggage from someone who owns male dogs!

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Flat Surfaces

Remember what tomorrow is."

My spouse is zealous with his reminder. The words have the same effect on me that the wave of a red cape has on a bull.

I fight an urge to dump garbage on the countertops or to throttle him. I inflict injury to the interior of my mouth avoiding a wrathful riposte, and I think about how much I detest the particular chore to which he refers.

Yes, dear, I reply as I begin straightening up the flat surfaces in order to make it easier for the cleaning lady to dust.

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Good Riddance

Pest control, the burly detective said as he checked the carcass with two bullets in the head. Yes, Sir, pest control. I’da done it myself if I had the chance. Nothing here to be upset about.

The anxious father sighed in relief. He’s been asking for it; that’s for sure. Mean bugger—just wouldn’t stay away.

Bag him and get him over to the lab for testing, pronto, the detective said to the waiting technicians.

He turned to the father. I hope your boy will be okay. We’ll let you know ASAP if he’ll need those rabies shots.

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King of the Jungle

Wow, looks as though they brought their whole company with them. I’m glad it’s you, and not me. I’d be too nervous to speak…

The lovely woman peered through the office blinds as the huge group trooped into the conference room.

Ah, it’s nothing. I’m prepared for this presentation.

The confident man in the charcoal gray suit straightened a gray silk tie patterned with small red dots, settled the suit coat more comfortably over his broad shoulders and passed a hand over his already tidy hair. Satisfied that he looked his best, he turned to a large, highly polished mahogany desk.

Remember Jane, he said as he picked up a thick folder emblazoned with the words Jungle Theme Park Project, it may be a jungle out there but I’m just the cat to tame it.

Grrrr, said the svelte woman as she gave him a kiss for luck, go get ‘em tiger.

As he walked through the door she could hear the roar of applause.

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La Danse

Fiery rhythm welds glorious forms into surreal sculptures, observed through drifting blue smoke. I take another step into the surging mass of bodies, writhing together on the measured rotation of flooring. As they undulate to the passionate beat, I join them. A muted sparkle of colored light washes faces and bodies; they alternately pale to vampire white and deepen to devil bright.

Hips and arms sway as the music invades my body and I surrender to the stimulating tempo. My loved one moves in his interpretation, spirited and sanguine. The miniscule distance between our bodies closes as others jostle us in their enthusiasm. Dreamlike, we gaze into shining eyes. A miniature portrait of the one we each hold dear is reflected there. All else is suspended; we become the only reality.

The throb of the music ceases, breaking our solitude. We languidly stroll from the floor, hand in hand, to sit in our darkened corner. Softly, under cover of the small table, hands begin to stroke. We become readied for another sort of duet. Abandoning our seats, we move toward the exit, filled with anticipation.

Ah, la danse.

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Office Fantasy

White hands danced over the keyboard. Wide dark eyes fringed by long lashes glanced at the computer screen on the corner of a brown desk. Straight-backed, she sat easily in her office chair, swiveled slightly in order to afford her the best view of the computer. Forever smiling, she conveyed the impression of happiness at her task.

A red skirt topped by a white, puff-sleeved blouse created a professional ensemble. Matching red shoes and a red bow atop her head completed the look. The only incongruity was her longish, black-tipped nose and rounded black ears.

I wish I was that happy all the time, thought the office manager on whose desk reposed the miniature sculpture of Minnie Mouse at work.

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Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.

Robert Benchley

Selective Memory

"She did drink a lot."

He should’ve not kept booze around.

"C’mon, you were married to an alcoholic. You know it doesn’t work that way."

"Well…he should’ve done something about those kids. They drove her nuts.

"She probably drove the kids nuts too. She always had to have her way; even moved them away from their friends. She wasn’t a pleasant person for kids to live with. She was tough."

She was not! She just expected certain behavior.

"She didn’t even like kids. I told her not to marry a man with boys. She didn’t like boys; said not to ever have any if I expected her to love my kids, then kept her word. She never had much to do with my kids. Now yours were a different matter."

You’re just paranoid.

"In fact, up to the time she died, I could count on one hand the number of times she said she loved me. Actually, I felt pretty unloved."

"I never felt that way. She was a good mother."

I rolled my eyes. Were my twin and I really born of the same mother? What could explain such opposite recollections; must’ve been parallel universes—or maybe just selective memory.

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Flash Fiction

Approbation

Sick! My God, she can’t be sick! This is our big chance. Gino paced back and forth across the polished dance floor. His face bore a spectrum of colors, from bright purple to red to pale white.

How could this be happening?

Gino, I’m sorry. ‘Cilla is really ill. She’s not faking it; I saw her with my own eyes. She’s been tossing her cookies all morning.

I was somewhat exasperated at the handsome young man’s reaction. Didn’t he care about anything but himself and this dance trophy?

What am I going to do? He ran a hand through his thick hair and looked around the room as though inspiration might lurk in a corner.

Weeellll, I drawled. I’ve been watching you two practice for a long time. Why don’t I step in for her?

You? He spit out the single word as though it carried some foul taste.

I wanted to throttle the selfish idiot but I retained my composure. "Yes, me. I can dance, whether or not you’ve ever deigned to notice."

But you haven’t done the routine before, he said. His egocentricity wilted noticeably as realization hit him that he didn’t really have much choice if he wanted to compete.

Okay, so we improvise. We’ve got until eight o’clock—that’s six hours from now. We can work something up, I said.

Hmmm, he said; his tone doubtful. Let’s get to it then. Gino headed over to the CD player and put on a piece of music. Dance to this piece and let me see what you can do.

The music started and I began to move…

*

At the competition that evening the host announced, Ladies and Gentlemen. Our next pair—Gino Vanelli and Christina Trammell. We moved to the center of the floor and took our stances. The familiar notes began to play…

Move to the music, eyes on your partner. Lost in the rhythm, feet turning, skirt swirling, dip and sway. Last snap of fingers. Done.

Gino’s eyes shone as we walked off the floor to thunderous applause.

Not bad, Trammell. Not bad at all.

Music to my ears.

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Ascension

You’re just trying to trick me.

Her arms clasped tightly around her body as though to protect her from his intense gaze, while her pixie face reflected the hurt she felt within.

And the doubt.

For was it truly downy feathers that she touched beneath her clasped limbs…or satin’s smoothness?

A harsh, deep, nasty chuckle met her words. "Oh, do you really think so. You know what you are, now don’t you." The words formed not a question, but an ugly reality.

A soundless sigh slid from her lips and she turned back to the dreadful picture in the water before her. A devilish urchin mirrored in its shiny surface, an entity dressed in sinful red, with horns on its head and a wicked look upon its face, stared back at her.

She must admit that she sometimes felt wicked, but she never acted upon her impulses.

Or did she?

I’m not. I’m not that imp, she insisted, although her declaration carried less substance now.

Come, dear. You know you are…deep down, you know it. He bent low to whisper in her ear; his sly words wound sinuously throughout her being to lodge in her heart, her mind, and her spirit.

And she felt the cold…chilling cold…begin to wind throughout her. She felt her very essence begin to freeze as though soon it would shatter into pieces and she would cease to exist at all.

Another deep rumble shook her. A gleeful look lightened, just a touch, his dark beauty. He would win the battle, oh yes, he would win…and soon. Just a little more encouragement…or perhaps he should say discouragement.

Soon she would be his.

She was tiring. Soon, he was sure, she would just give up.

As he watched her droop, she briefly lifted her head and began a slow roll of her shoulders as though she would ease tense muscles.

And she felt the ponderous weight of indecision drop from her heart and soul as the realization of the weight of miraculous wings filled her mind.

Then she knew.

I am NOT that imp, she proclaimed, and her words were strong now. "You ARE a liar. I know you now for exactly who and what you are. You shall not win, for I belong to the Master of All. And HE is not you!"

The deep rumble she now heard carried none of the glee of before, and soon the sound and his form dissipated into thin air.

*

Look…Look at the peace on her face.

The woman leaned over the hospital bed to stroke the dark hair of the still form lying there, and to press a light kiss upon her white brow.

Yes, daughter, you know where you belong. Don’t struggle anymore. Go, be at peace now, my angel.

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Christmas with Family

Holidays should be spent with family, although the others did not seem to mind. As an unwilling participant performing community service for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I view the scene with angry eyes. Festive smells permeate the room, both mouth-watering and sad. Far from being joyful, the happy holiday tunes wafting through several speakers only serve to accentuate the separation from my family.

Steam rises from large pans holding mounds of mashed and sweet potatoes, corn and green beans, slices of succulent ham and turkey, and golden heaps of dressing and soft rolls. Bowls of cranberries and trays of carrots, celery and pickles add their color to the long tables, at one end of which lie stacks of gaily-printed heavy-duty paper plates, towers of large, plastic, red and green glasses and trays of utensils. A separate table is loaded with pumpkin, mincemeat and apple pies; chocolate, spice and white cakes; and cookies in the shapes of reindeer, bells, wreaths and trees, while still another holds huge urns filled with hot coffee and water for tea, along with bottles of soft drinks.

The hall is decorated for the occasion with a large tree whose lights reflect in gleaming balls and shimmering tinsel. Tables covered with cheerful printed tablecloths are crowned with pots of poinsettias. Candles on windowsills provide glowing beacons of welcome.

Here Comes Santa Claus plays in the background as a smiling group of volunteers surround a large round man, his head of luxurious white hair topped with a Santa hat beneath which peeked bushy eyebrows and merry eyes. He regales us with stories of playing Santa for the young patients at a nearby hospital. He certainly looks the part.

His wife, short but plump, is the perfect ‘Mrs. Santa.’ She calls her husband ‘Papa’ and bestows occasional pats on his broad shoulder as she speaks of their love of service and for each other. He responds with a wink and a fond squeeze of her hand.

The voice of one of the event organizers interrupts another story. Take your places please, folks. We’re ready to begin serving.

The doors to the hall open and a long line of hungry people begins to file past. Plopping a mound of savory potatoes on each plate that passes by is easy. Meeting the eyes of those holding the plates is not.

Don’t be so stiff and shy, Brad. They won’t bite, you know. Standing in close proximity is my girlfriend Andrea—Andi for short—who has volunteered to keep me company. Her enchanting big brown eyes twinkle with enthusiasm as she smiles and welcomes each passerby with a cheery greeting as though they are long lost friends. Try it, she advises.

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